


the multitudinous seas incarnate

by revolutionaryfury



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Ableist Language, Adventure, Child Prodigy, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Les Mis/Batman crossover, M/M, Mental Instability, Multi, Physical Abuse, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Rape/Non-con Elements, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7784263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionaryfury/pseuds/revolutionaryfury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Azelma Thénardier, a child prodigy-turned-psychologist by the age of eighteen, is incredibly ambitious. She just knows she's the perfect candidate to perform therapy with Abaissés Asylum's most notorious criminal, the Joker. He is a charming young man capable of being terrible, and unfortunately for her, she has caught his attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wir_sind_die_Jager](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wir_sind_die_Jager/gifts).



> This was inspired by wir_sind_die_Jager's behemoth of a work "A Better Class of Criminal." I recommend it madly. So, I recently got disgustingly obsessed with the DC universe, particularly Harley Quinn and the Joker. Anyhow, so I wrote this! I rarely see Enj/Azelma and I love it! 
> 
> Also, a VERY VERY important note: the relationship between is Harley Quinn and the Joker SHOULD NOT be romanticized. It is abusive and nasty. I'm fascinated by it and like to write about tricky and rough subjects. I am able to separate fantasy from reality, as are most of the people who ship this. If you ever need help, please contact a hotline, relative, or shelter right away. Do not stay in an abusive relationship. "Mistah J" may seem appealing, but he's a fictional character.

“You want to know my  _ name _ , yeah, Dr. T?”

Azelma Thénardier looked up from her notes, shocked. These were the first words her patient had uttered this entire session. “Uh-huh!” She paused and smoothed down her coppery ringlets. “I mean, yes, of course.” Sometimes it was hard to keep up a professional demeanor. Being a child prodigy-turned-psychotherapist all by the age of eighteen would do that to you. She pushed up her glasses and peered at the man in front of her. “Yes, I’d like to know your name, please. We can make some real progress if ya tell me a personal detail like that.” She tried for what she hoped was a smile that said,  _ Yes, nutso psychopathic criminal, we can trust each other, please don’t stab me to death. _

“Well-ll-ll...” he said slowly, drawing out the word, making it sound almost sexual, “too bad!” He sat back in his chair, guffawing that hideous, high-pitched laugh of his. On and on it went, for maybe five whole minutes. That laugh was accompanied by some uncomfortable-to-look-at lip-licking and teeth-baring. “Too bad!” he shrieked, those horrid giggles slipping from his mouth. 

Azelma sat silently, absorbing it, and wondered if her patient actually spent time in front of a mirror to look this unsettling and sound this creepy. When the man was done, he leaned back in his chair and sneered. The awful smirk was made even more monstrous by that Glasgow grin. The scars were puckered and ugly, misshapen ropes of pale flesh that were never meant to seen without his signature makeup. Of course Dr. Javert had confiscated the nasty stuff the second her patient had come into the Abaissés Asylum.

“Oh, you’re real funny,” Azelma said, and scribbled down a few notes. “Ya know, we’ll never make any progress if you refuse to talk for forty-five minutes and then turn this all into a big joke.” Usually, she wouldn’t speak to a patient this way, especially a psychotic criminal such as this man, but he was was a special case. He who called himself the Joker was completely lucid and conscious of his decisions. A murderous prankster like the Joker could most certainly take a jibe. Well...probably. This was their first session together, and Azelma had had to pull all kinds of strings to be allowed to see the man.

The patient’s eyes lit up and he grinned widely. “Well, I’ll be! Did little miss professional just backtalk the most famous murderer in Gotham? You’ve got guts, girl!” Those words would have put a fear of God into Azelma had they not come accompanied by some more ugly giggles and a look of genuine delight. “If my arms weren't handcuffed to this table, I’d shake your hand.”

Azelma smiled, despite herself. Though most of her first therapy session with the Joker had gone in silence, his sudden opening up was pretty great. She would chalk this up as a success. After all, he hadn’t murdered her like the last therapist. To be fair, though, that guy had apparently been incredibly unprofessional, as his daughter-in-law was killed in one of the Joker’s explosions, and the therapist had provoked him until he snapped. The poor woman’s death was sad of course, and Azelma felt for the doctor’s son who had lost a wife, but behaving unprofessionally by taunting your client and even trying to hit them as this schmuck had was just...idiotic. 

“What are you smiling at, Dr. T?” the Joker said, drawing Azelma from her thoughts. “If I didn’t know any better, doc, I would say I caused that.”

Azelma leveled a smirk at her patient. His ice-blue eyes, pale blonde curls, and porcelain skin didn’t befit a crazed killer, she mused, but those scars...well, those scars had stories to tell. And she would get them out of him! “You may’ve,” she allowed, keeping her smirk fixed on.

“Goody,” the Joker grinned. “Now, doc, I must say...if you’re going to be picking apart my brain for the foreseeable future, we should get to know one another. How about this: you answer a few questions of mine -- _ honestly _ \-- and I’ll consider answering one of yours.”

“Honestly?”

Her patient barked out a laugh. “Perhaps, doc, perhaps.” He leaned forward over the stainless steel table that separated doctor from psycho, observed the room for a bit. “Quite gray in here, isn’t it? Just this table, these chairs...no weapons to speak of...no security cameras either, I notice.” A wicked grin flashed here.

“We’ve had budget cuts,” Azelma said reluctantly. It was no use lying to the Joker about this fact. She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“In any case, cupcake, let me ask you this: just how old  _ are _ you? You look about thirteen.”

Azelma prickled. She knew she shouldn’t let him get to her, should say, “I don’t think that’s any of your concern!” Age was a sensitive point with her. Instead of being calm and professional, she found herself snarling, “Look, I’m eighteen. I know I’m young, I should still be in high school ‘r some crap, but I’m perfectly qualified to be in this position. I’ll have you know I graduated high school when I was ten and I’m a doctor by this age, so I’m doin’ something right!”

“Hit a nerve, did I?” the Joker asked innocently.

Azelma shrugged, suddenly, self-conscious of her little blow-up in front of the most feared criminal mastermind around. “Sorry about that outburst, Mr. Joker, that wasn’t very professional.”

“Well, I asked for the truth, now didn’t I? So, Dr. T,  you’re a child prodigy, is it?” her patient asked, seemingly genuinely interested. 

Azelma nodded. “Yeah, an’ my colleagues sure never forget the ‘child’ part. Everyone thinks I’m too young for this ‘n that. It’s exhausting.” She shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull to get in here with you.” The Joker raised a pale eyebrow, suggesting something dirty. Azelma was able to ignore it, but barely. “Now I would like to ask you a question, if I could. What’s your name?”

The Joker considered for a moment. “If you promise you won’t write that bit down, doc, I’ll tell you. Scout’s honor you leave that little tidbit out of your notes, and you can know my name.”

Azelma considered back. Sure, knowing his name was a huge step, and it wouldn’t exactly be needed. It sure wasn’t as important as, say, the story behind those scars or a revealing tale from his childhood. It would just be...a nice way to know this psychotic criminal on a personal level. A bit of his trust. “Sure.”

“It’s Julien Enjolras.”

XXX

Dr. Lucien Joly clutched his walking stick tightly as he stood outside the Joker’s cell. He had the forces of the Abaissés Asylum behind him, guns drawn with the safety off, and still he felt nervous. He couldn’t believe that Dr. Javert had allowed this kid to be the Joker’s therapist. She was green, a rookie. She may have been the smartest person in any room, but her emotional maturity left something to be asked for. Everyone was so impressed with this Dr. T that they seemed to forget she was just a teenager. A really, really smart teenager. She may understand  psychology, but she was still impressionable and idealistic.

He pressed a button on the outside of the heavy steel door, grimacing at the fact that they had an intercom but not fucking security cameras. “Ah, Dr. T, this is Dr. Joly. Your session is up. We’re going to open the door now. Stand up slowly, cross to the door, and we will let you out. If your...patient moves a muscle, we will open fire. Do the both of you understand?”

“Yes,” Dr. T answered, and the Joker cackled in reply. Joly had to grudgingly give the kid props for that one -- she didn’t quail in the face of possibly turning into Swiss cheese because her patient twitched. The large steel door ground open slowly and there stood Azelma  Thénardier, hands clasped behind her back, all pale skin and wild russet curls. Her black-framed glasses looked like to fall down the bridge of her nose, her white doctor’s coat seemed a tad too big, and her clothing was just a tad too tight and a smidge too low-cut to be deemed professional, Dr. Joly was struck for a moment with the notion that she was a kid in her mom’s clothing, playing at doctor. It chilled him. This was too much. This girl was going to be chewed up and spat out, broken and battered and most likely dead. As she exited the room and the doors began to grind close, he caught the Joker’s horrific grin. 

He had to stop this.

“Hiya, Dr. Joly,” Dr. T. said, pushing up her glasses. She hurried to keep up with him as he strode down the hall. 

“Let’s go into my office, shall we?” Dr. Joly said briskly. He stopped before the door to is office, a spacious, airy room with off-white walls and house plants all over. Most people didn’t peg the brusque doctor for the type to have a comfortable office as he did, but his hypochondria was made better by the allowance of air and light. He opened the door and gestured the girl into a seat across from his cherry wood desk. The seats were comfortable leather. “Now, about that session, Dr. Thénardier.”

“Please, call me Azelma,” the girl said. “My last name’s a little, uh, difficult. French parents an’ all that.” At Dr. Joly’s nod, she smiled nervously. “Well, the session went real well, I would say. He was quiet an’ moody, uh, withdrawn for the first...forty-five minutes, shall we say? Then he just started talking. A bit teasing, but helpful. He didn’t really...say anything of consequence, but I got a pretty good look into how he thinks. I have lots of notes.”

Dr. Joly absorbed this. “And did your patient....did he threaten you?”

Dr. T  -- Azelma -- shook her head, her curls waving. “No, not at all. He didn’t threaten me with violence or nothin’. We only talked for about ten minutes, but it was real...enlightening. I’m looking forward to our session tomorrow.” 

Dr. Joly’s jaw tightened. He had to stop this before it started. And to do that...something brutal and honest needed to be said. Something he’d never told anyone before, not even his husband Bossuet. “Azelma, about that...I’m going to be quite honest with you,” he said, taking the plunge. “I’m going to tell you why I walk with this cane. The story is...pertinent. Look, I was very young when I came into this facility, hardly twenty-two.  Not as young as you, of course, but young nonetheless. I was incredibly ambitious. Thought that I would be the best doctor this place had ever seen. I thought of myself as a revolutionary, but really I was cocky and overconfident, and it was my downfall.

“I convinced Dr. Javert to assign me the most dangerous criminal in the place. The Gypsy Wonder, she called herself. She was lethal to just about everyone she came into contact with, and it was a miracle we’d apprehended her. The Gypsy Wonder had eyes like a fortune teller, and she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. For thirty  _ glorious _ days I acted as her therapist. She enchanted me, she...she beguiled me. Made me feel like I was the only man in the world. I thought I had cured her in record time. This...this seasoned vigilante killer had gone soft, maybe, because of   _ me _ . I reported my progress for the first two weeks and then she...she asked me to stop. Said the only way I could truly gain her trust was to trust her. And so I did. I trusted the Gypsy Wonder and she even told me her name. Musichetta. Told me her sob story, that she was a Mexican immigrant who turned into a vigilante to protect her family and other immigrants. And on the thirtieth day...Musichetta told me she loved me. And then, because I had undone her restraints in our third session, she leapt on me. And because I had moved our therapy sessions to this office in our tenth session, she grabbed a paperweight and smashed my knee with it.” He got up painfully and grabbed his cane. 

“This is why I don’t do personal therapy with patients anymore, Azelma.  learned a very hard -- nay,  _ excruciating  _ \-- lesson that day. You can  _ never _ trust these people. They are insane, sadistic, and pure evil. They will charm you, say whatever it takes to make you soft, and then they will tear to pieces. If it were my choice, we’d kill them all, not waste tax dollars trying to  _ fix  _ them” He shook his head with disgust. “I’m going to ask Dr. Javert to pull you off. For your own sake.”

Azelma sat silently. Joly wondered what could possibly going through the girl’s mind. He had never been anything but civil to her, and now she had told her his deepest secret. She had to be reeling. Finally, fidgeted in the comfortable leather seat and frowned. “Look, Dr. Joly,” she started carefully, “I’m real sorry that that happened to you.What Musichetta did was real horrible and manipulative, but I know ya don’t want my pity. It’s just...ya got real personal with a patient. On a pretty deep and, er, unprofessional level. I know I’m young, I  _ know _ . Everybody has horror stories to tell me. That’s the worst one I’ve heard, I’ll grant ya, but still. I know I can handle it. Maybe I can’t cure the Joker, but you’ve gotta give me a chance.” It looked like she was getting angry. “Dr. Javert thinks I can, an’ he’s the head of this institution.  _ He’s _ in charge. ‘Scuse me, Dr. Joly but I gotta go do some paperwork.”

The impudent brat then got up and stalked out of his office. Dr. Joly was left alone with his plants and his fury.  _ Something dreadful is going to happen to that girl and I won’t be able to stop it.  _ The thought haunted him for a moment before his fury returned.  _ Typical insolent teenager. Has a fucking doctorate when she should be in high school, and still she lets her emotions guide her. Gets offended and then just leaves, as if I’m not trying to save her.  _ The twenty-six-year-old doctor rubbed his temples, trying to think rationally. _ You were just like her four years ago, remember, Jol. maybe she needs time. Maybe hearing a horror story isn’t enough. She’s going to have to live it.  _

  
  



	2. Two

“Welcome back, doc,” he said with a lascivious grin. Snow-white skin stood out against the bright orange of his asylum-issue shirt and pants. “Did you miss me?” 

Azelma chuckled. “Real funny,” she replied. “So, I was wonderin’ if we could pick up where we left off yesterday?” She pulled out her notepad and pen and tried to get comfortable in the metal chair.    

“Mmm...I think not, doc,” the Joker snapped, his mood shifting. 

“Wait...why?” Azelma asked, her professionalism gone for a moment. They had been making such progress yesterday!

The Joker glared at her. “Because I don’t feel like talking today. Now scram!” He looked away sullenly, crossing his arms and pouting like a child. It was remarkable, his ability to sulk while looking like an angel gone wrong.  

“Mister Joker, I think you know real well that I can’t just leave ‘cause you’re in a pouty mood.” Azelma regretted her word choice immediately. She was just so...almost...offended at his behavior. Judging by the Joker’s furious expression, she was right to regret. “Uh...sorry. I mean, d’you wanna maybe talk about why you don’t feel like talkin’? What changed?” She was met with silence. For ten long, dragging minutes, not a peep was uttered. Azelma tried to change her tactic. She chuckled nervously. “Look, Mister Joker, sorry about that. I don’ mean to be impolite. I know it’s real depressing in here and sometimes you just don’t wanna talk too much. It’s okay. Whenever you’re ready.” She smiled. Azelma thought that if she showed her patient empathy instead of the disdain and fear every other therapist had done thus far, perhaps something could come of it. It was surprising that no one had thought of this yet!

The Joker raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Why do you talk like that?”

“What do you mean?” Azelma asked cautiously. 

He waved a hand dismissively. “Well, you have your little accent, for one thing. Gotham born and raised, I assume.” At her nod, he continued, “But the way you speak, you always try to please other people. Tell them what they want to hear. You’re, hmm, timid. And here I thought you were a strong woman of science.” 

Like everything he said, this rattled Azelma. She didn’t respond, but instead scribbled down a few notes.  _ Patient is observant and intelligent. Notices speaking patterns and insecurities. No particular emotion attached to the observation of insecurities, save for slightly mocking nature (???) Challenging and sullen today. Doesn’t want to talk, but now trying to sway the conversation his way. I’ll play his game to see what comes of letting him lead the conversation.  _

 

“Do-oo-ooc,” the Joker singsonged, “are you ignoring me?” He licked his lips and leaned over the metal table. He was in a straitjacket this time, as he’d attacked a guard and given the man two broken legs for his trouble. 

“No, Mr. Joker, just takin’ some notes,” Azelma answered. 

“Good, cupcake, because I just  _ couldn’t _ handle it if my beautiful doc ignored me. Now hmm, I believe I asked you a question, but...I’m more interested in the story of miss child prodigy. You pick my brain, I pick yours, ah, as it were.”    __

_ If he leads the conversation and I don’t tell him  _ too  _ much personal information, maybe the progress I want so bad could happen. I can prove that Dr. Joly wrong, and prove myself to Dr. Javert. If little Dr.  _ _ Thénardier manages to cure the worst criminal in Arkham...  _ She stopped herself before the little fantasy could go any further. She had to be realistic. “Sure, Mister Joker.”

“Doc, I told you my name, which is real...personal. Do you remember it?”

“Yes. Julien Enjolras,” Azelma breathed. She’d spent hours researching the name and all the various spellings she could find, but there was nothing. It was as if Julien Enjolras had never existed. She almost wondered if he had given her a fake name. 

The Joker shuddered. “Yes,” he hissed, “that name. That hideous, hideous name. You know, I don’t know why I told you that, doc. Been agonizing over it, tell you the truth.” He turned to show her a bloody patch of skin and some missing hair on his head. It looked like someone had viciously ripped out a few of his curls. “Did this so I could figure it out, but I just...couldn’t...do it.”

_ Patient self-harms when conflicted _ , Azelma wrote. She felt shaken. “Mr. Joker, are you tellin’ me you hurt yourself ‘cause you told me a personal detail?” 

Her patient bared his teeth. “The pounding in my head just wouldn’t stop, dear doc. Now, since I told you my name, why don’t you tell me yours. Not just that insufferable last name, but your first name. A beautiful little doll like you has to have an equally beautiful name.” His lip curled in a way that, in another life, could have been charming. 

“Mister Joker,” Azelma said uneasily, “I don’ think Dr. Javert would really want...” His icy blue eyes locked in on her.  _ Let him guide the conversation...go with it...  _ “Uh, my name’s Azelma. French come to Gotham all that..”

“Ah-zell-muh,” the Joker purred. “Like Azazel. Y’know who that is, doc?”

“Vaguely,” Azelma said, slightly flushed at the way he had purred her name. “Some kinda devil spirit, yeah?”

“More or... _ less _ . Doctor Azelma, let me ask you this: do you have a little devil inside you? A bit of our friend Azazel?” The Joker leaned over the table as much as his straitjacket allowed. “You’ve got hair the color of blood, doc. I have to wonder...does it reflect your, hmm, personality? Your wants and needs? Some secret, ah,  _ desires _ , perhaps? My little bloody-haired therapist. Bloody hair, bloody hands, bloody...mind?” A sickening giggle escaped his mouth and his scars pulled tight.

_ God, but he is enchanting. _ “Uh...” Azelma said, her mouth hanging open slightly. How to answer him, how to respond...what would Dr. Joly say if he could see her now? She had expected her patient to curse her, call her names, maybe even try to kill her. She had expected him to lie or refuse to talk at all. But this? This part where he asked if she had a devil’s nature? And if she were to continue humoring him and give him an honest answer, well...it would be complicated.

Azelma thought back to when she was maybe fourteen -- she had beat her older sister bloody for getting involved with a no-good gangbanger named Montparnasse.  _ “I tried to tell you, Ep, he’s no good for you! Why’re you blamin’ me? I didn’  _ ask _ him to sleep with me -- he just did it! Well, of course I enjoyed it!  You seen the size of his dick? Ha! But that’s not the point here. He’s dirty enough to cheat on you with your own kid sister, ain’t he?”   _ Okay, so maybe Eponine had caught Azelma in bed with her nasty boyfriend, and maybe Eponine had gone a little nuts. The beating was only to calm her down. And she’d scratched Azelma up pretty good too... Eponine had made plenty of idiotic decisions in her life, from hanging around with gangbangers like Monty to getting married at eighteen. Actually, when really considered, that was a good one. It had straightened her out and made a stay-at-home mom of her.  Ep was married to a sweet-as-pie Haitian doctor. He was actually a doctor at the Asylum, Dr. Etienne Combeferre. ‘Ferre had a real rapport with the patients and staff. Good guy. He worked with the less severe patients, so Azelma really only saw him at family dinners.  

“Cat got your tongue, doc?”

“N-no. Uh...” She twitched nervously.  “What’s the purpose of this whole line ‘a questionin’, Mr. J?” Azelma was so flustered, she could hardly get the words out.  _ Patient...  _ she wrote on her pad, then stopped. 

“Mr. J?” the Joker chortled, eyebrows raised. “Mr. J! I like that, doc, I do. I could see the cogs turning in that pretty little head of yours just now, pondering and, hmm, weighing. I think you’re smart -- not just like your little prodigy self -- smart like _ I  _ am. You’ve...tasted it, I think.”

_ Why did you give him a nickname, idiot?!  _  “Tasted what?” she asked, a little less addled. She scratched down a few notes, meaningless psychobabble about how he was mocking when avoiding questions or something.

The Joker licked his lips. “Chaos, pumpkin.  _ The revolution of chaos. _ All you headshrinkers want to pick the brain of a madman.  _ Why _ do I kill people, if I’m  _ aware _ of my crimes, if I feel  _ bad _ . And here I go -- a shrink’s wet dream. Pay attention, sweetheart, scribble this down: I want a revolution. I’ve always wanted a revolution, but  _ you people  _ don’t. All you little people, walking around in your little circles, it’s like a bad play. No one cares about anything of, ah, substance. You all...you all want to change the world at some point, maybe when you’re a fresh little teen, but it passes. It _ passes _ , Azelma. You grow up and ramble in your circles, get a job, squeeze out a few brats, and the cycle continues. Skyscrapers and money, but no one wants to, hmm, change the world. No one wants to see it _ evolve _ . 

“It’s been the same for thousands of years, doc. The cycle. You act like a little revolutionary, you grow up and get  _ domesticated _ by society. Since Biblical times. Only a few people in history haven’t fallen prey to it. Think Christ, think Malcolm X, Alexander the Great. Politicians and emperors.” He licked his lips and shuddered with what Azelma thought was orgasmic pleasure.  “I am the second coming, and I think...perhaps...you might wanna join me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) So, I forgot to tell folks that the story's title is part of a quote from Macbeth. I thought "the multitudinous seas incarnate" describe the Joker and Enjolras really well. All the world's oceans personified to those of y'all who don't study Shakespeare. The intensity and the fury, especially.  
> B) The "little people and their little circles" is based off of a quote from the poet William Butler Yeats (a favorite of mine!) when he went to see a play and was thinking about how stupid it was that everything had to be tragic and absurd.  
> C) Thank you for reading! Please leave comments. It makes my day and really motivates me to write.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I love this story so much! Updating it really brings me so much joy. <3

“Zee, Zee!” Azelma’s nine-year-old brother, Jean-Pierre, called excitedly. He bounded up to her, babbling happily. “Zee, I’m so happy you’re here. ‘Ponine has been makin’ me babysit Alphonse all the time and Astor is being a real jerk and-” The little boy stopped abruptly. “Oh, uh, sorry. ‘Ponine says I talk too much without  _ allowin’ others their turn _ . She said I have to say how are you and stuff. How are you?”

“Good, JP, real good,” Azelma smiled, putting an arm around her brother and guiding him inside the house he shared with their eldest sister. Eponine had gained custody of their brothers (Jean-Pierre, Astor, and Gavroche) when she married ‘Ferre and now the boys lived with them and Eponine’s son, Alphonse. The house was a little green bungalow with a beautiful garden out front and a play structure in the back. A perfect place for three  boys to grow up. She had a special connection with JP; his innocence was incredibly endearing, his little motormouth was charming, and was a dead ringer for Azelma herself with his russet curls and light brown eyes. 

JP burst into the house, shouting, “ZEE IS HERE, EVERYBODY!” 

Astor came running from the kitchen, then tried to slow down and act cool. “Hi, Zee,” he said a little bashfully. Astor was eleven now and apparently “going through a phase.” His brown hair hung down in his eyes and he was wearing basketball shorts. Hm. That was new. 

“Hey, brat,” Azelma said, and tousled his messy hair. “Where's that sister ‘a yours?”

“‘Ponine is your sister too!” JP objected.

“She’s in the livin’ room with Alfie and Uncle ‘Ferre,” Astor answered. The two boys called their brother-in-law their uncle, confusing all the school officials. They had called him that ever since they were adopted a couple years ago. You didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to see the boys craved a proper father figure, and their brother-in-law was the closest thing they’d get. Azelma wryly entertained the thought of calling her fellow doctor Uncle ‘Ferre. She smirked. “Watcha smiling about, Zee?” Astor asked.

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Why don’ you take chatterbox here and help Gav with dinner.” She left her little brothers and made her way to the living room. There was her brother-in-law, a tall Haitian man with glasses. He was gently smiling at little Alphonse. The two-year-old had a little afro going on, much to the bemusement of Eponine and ‘Ferre.

“Hey, stranger!” Eponine cried when she saw her sister. She handed her son off to ‘Ferre and leapt over to give Azelma a hard hug. “So glad you’re makin’ it to dinner!” 

“It’s good to see you, Azelma,” Combeferre said softly. Because he wasn’t a Gotham native, he spoke very clearly and properly. It had worn off on Eponine a bit, but she still slipped up and let her accent out sometimes. 

“Good to see you too, doc,” Azelma said. “Jeez, Ep, I was over for dinner last weekend. It hasn’t been a year or somethin’. Down, girl, stay!” She untangled herself from her sister. “The boys drivin’ you crazy yet?”

Eponine shook her head fondly. “Well, let’s see: because Gav is a sophomore now, he thinks he should be allowed out at two in the morning. Hmm...Astor is too old to babysit, apparently, also he’s gonna be a professional basketball player and we don’t ‘support his dream.’ We had to buy JP a tape recorder to tell his stories to so he’ll shut up. Oh, yeah, and of course I’m raisin’ my own kid. I’m not even old enough to drink, Zee, but I need a stiff one.” 

Combeferre wrapped an arm around his wife. “People think I have the hard job. People are wrong.” 

Gavroche wrangled his two younger brothers into the dining room carrying several heaping portions of spaghetti and meatballs. “Dinner’s served!” he shouted.

After the meal was over, Eponine went to put little Alfie to bed. Gavroche quickly retired to his room to text his friends. Astor convinced JP to play a game of  horse in the driveway, and Azelma was left alone with Combeferre. “Wow, those boys sure make some good spaghetti,” she remarked. 

Combeferre nodded. “Eponine is so busy doing so much. Gavroche just had to step in. Despite what she says, he’s growing into a fine young man. He’s very intelligent. Not a child prodigy like you, I’ll admit, but with his skills in English and history, he could be quite the professor someday.” 

“That’s real great,” Azelma said. “Good to see he’s makin’ something of himself. Ep and I didn’ have it so easy growin’ up.”

The doctor nodded. “So I’ve heard, Anyhow, Azelma, I was wondering how your sessions with the Joker are going. It’s been the talk to the Asylum you know.” He ran a hand through his short, wiry curls. “And of course Dr. Joly has been doing the majority of the talking. He says you’re not prepared for this. Apparently he’s even considering bringing it up with Dr. Javert.”

Azelma groaned. “God! He’s still spoutin’ that?” She explained how Dr. Joly had called her into his office and lectured her for some time on how she just wasn’t ready for the case. “This...it’s got something to do with a patient he treated. The Gypsy Wonder, I think. I’m sure ya know that cautionary story.” At her brother-in-law’s nod, she shrugged sadly. “Guess he thought he could really cure her. Got too personally invested.” Azelma  left out the part where he had brought that on himself by falling in love with his patient. “He cared too much, ‘Ferre, I guess he doesn’ want me to do that. I think Joly means well, but he’s drivin’ me batty. He doesn’t think I’m ready  _ emotionally _ for somethin’ as big as this just ‘cause of mistakes he made. I’m not him, though. And y’know, the Joker isn’t so bad. I’m making real progress with him. I decided to start lettin’  him run the conversation, an’ I’m pleasantly surprised.” She didn’t offer any more information, but Combeferre seemed to be satisfied.

“I’m sure he will bring this to Javert no matter what you do, Azelma, but it’s good to hear you have a well-prepared argument. Some thorough notes would also be good to have.” ‘Ferre gave her a smile. “I should go say goodnight to my son. Excuse me, Azelma.” He gave her a sharp pat on the shoulder and retired to the room him and Eponine shared with baby Alfie. 

Azelma wished her brother-in-law goodnight and told him to carry on the wish to the rest of their family. In his own stoic, serious way, Combeferre was probably the best friend she had at the Asylum. All the other doctors seemed to treat her with disdain or condescension. She got up from the table and walked outside to find her littlest brothers locked in some kind of basketball combat. “Hey, munchkins!” she hollered. “I’m goin’ home now. Come say goodbye.”

JP abandoned their game and threw the ball at Astor with quite a bit of force. “Zee, I thought you were stayin’ the night tonight. You know, ‘Ponine says we should let you live with us ‘cause it’s scary out in the world. Also, I wanted to show you all the Pokemon I caught and I wanted you to tell me stories about the crazies you treat. Uncle ‘Ferre says ‘crazies’ isn’t a nice word, but that’s who goes in an insane asylum, right? They wouldn’t put me in an asylum, right?” He looked nervous. “I mean, Ep threatens to when I get too hyper, but they wouldn’t actually do that...right?”

“Motormouth, calm down,” Azelma chuckled. She gave trapped both Astor and Jean-Pierre into a hug. “They won’t put you away, JP, right-right-right, an’ don’t call my patients crazy. Astor, you keep Mr. Chatterbox here out of trouble, hear me?” Astor nodded. “Next weekend I’ll try to get you two over to my apartment to spend the night.”

Astor finally pulled away and ran to pick up his basketball. “That sounds real fun, Zee,” he said. “I gotta get back to practice now. JP, c’mon! It’s not like you’re never gonna see her again.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s such a mama’s boy.”

“I’m a sister’s boy!” JP announced gleefully. “Bye, Zee!”

Azelma climbed in her small car, waving as she drove away. It was a refreshing little evening of normalcy before she went back to the land of the crazy.

XXX

On Monday morning, Dr. Javert awaited Azelma in the lobby. He was clad in a pair of pressed black slacks and a crisp white shirt. The usually stalwart man was almost...nervous to discuss what he needed to with Azelma. He liked the girl quite a lot -- she had moxie. “Doctor,” he said when the girl walked in. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, a few stray curls escaping. Her glasses slipped down her nose constantly. She wore a tight black skirt and a black sweater today, and looked to be tottering on her heels. He felt a sudden urge of fatherly affection for Azelma. 

“Oh, hiya, Dr. Javert,” she greeted him. “What can I do for ya?”

“Come to my office with me, Dr. T,” he directed. The young doctor struggled to keep up with his long-legged strides. They made the short distance to his spacious but Spartan office and he directed her to sit. Javert settled himself at his desk and steepled his fingers. “I’m going to be frank,” Javert said, “I’ve gotten complaints about your therapy with the Joker.” He took a steadying breath. Being frank was what he was good at. He’d been called blunt before. 

“Complaints from Lucien Joly, yeah?” Azelma seemed to be challenging him to contradict her.

Javert allowed a small nod.

“Dr. Joly’s got quite a lot to say about me treating the Joker,” Azelma grumbled. It was clear she was trying to suppress her accent a bit for the sake of professionalism. “Dr. Javert, I gotta be frank now. Everyone is concerned about me because ‘a my age. I’ve heard all kinds of horror stories and cautionary tales. The other doctors don’t treat me like an equal. I guess people are looking out for me, or concerned about me...or something. They’ve got an interesting way of showing it. I’m a doctor just like everyone else here. I completed school, wrote papers, an’ did research. I got the job. I’m making progress with the Joker, I’ve got some real thorough notes, and he’s told me some personal details I don’t believe anybody’s gotten before me. In two sessions, I’ll remind ya. I just...I’m real tired of bein’ condescended to and treated like some no-nothing kid.” Her accent got thicker the more stressed and impassioned she got, Dr. Javert noticed. “If those other doctors would stop thinkin’ about my age for just one single second, they’d know I’m real capable!”

Javert sighed. Her words made sense. In all honesty, the girl was correct. Her grades at Gotham U had been fantastic, and her thesis on extreme personalities, while initially looked over, was quite insightful and interesting. He’d read through it three times himself. He supposed the distrust his other employees held for her came from her age and her inexperience, but also from the way she held herself and the way she spoke. Azelma  Thénardier was a spunky girl who held herself with confidence. He was sure the older, more experienced doctors thought she was full of herself. He saw it more as a refusal to be treated like a hapless child. She could hold her own, which he appreciated. Javert was not one to guide a doctor like a child, even if she technically was one.

“I understand,” he said at last. “Honestly, Dr. T, between us, I agree with you. I’m required to set up a meeting between doctors and myself if there is a complaint, however, so I will have to schedule a mediation soon. Friday, perhaps?” At Azelma’s nod, he penciled it into his day book. “Very good. You and I will listen to Lucien’s side of things --”

“Again,” the young doctor huffed.

“Azelma,” Javert said sharply, “don’t be childish. You’ll hear what Lucien has to say and then he will listen to you. I’ll make my decision upon hearing both of your sides of the issue.” At the girl’s terrified look, he allowed a sympathetic smile. “Dr. T, this meeting is no more than a formality, to be honest. You’ll be fine. You’ll continue working with the Joker unless something catastrophic happens.”

Azelma smiled with relief, but he could see anger simmering gently behind those brown eyes of hers. “Thanks, doc,” she said. “I mean it.”

XXX

She walked -- no,  _ stormed _ \-- into their session furiously. She yanked out the ugly silver chair and hardly spared her patient a look. “Good morning, Mr. J,” she snarled. 

“Ah-zell-muh,” the Joker purred, “something wrong?”

“Can’t discuss it with you,” Azelma snapped back. “Can’t be unprofessional or nothin’.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed her glasses up her nose, then got out her pad and pencil. “Uh, sorry...rough morning.”

The man once known as Julien Enjolras pulled his puffy scars into the semblance of a smile. “Tell me what happened, doc,” he crooned. “You always listen to me prattle on. It’s only fair someone listens to you for once.”

Azelma smirked. “Mr. J, I don’t think it’d be real professional if I started lettin’ you do the therapy.”

He leaned across the table. “Oh, c’mon, miss Azelma. Are the other doctors, hmm, bullying you?”

“I’m choosin’ to ignore that sarcasm, but...somethin’ like that. One ‘a the other doctors here doesn’t think I should be your therapist, that’s all. He doesn’t think I’m emotionally prepared. I’ve explained myself to way too many people in the past couple days,, an’ I’m so fuckin’ tired of people underestimating me! I’m strong! I’m capable! I can fucking deal with YOU!” She slammed a fist on the table that separated them, actually making the Joker jump. He started to shake. “N-no. I’m sorry, Mr. J. Didn’ mean to lash out. Didn’ mean to startle. I...I’m just tired.” She reached across the table unconsciously and laid a hand on his curly blonde hair. “Look -- look, that wasn’t okay. I’m real sorry. Uh, I’m gonna see what I can do about gettin’ you outta that straitjacket. It ain’t humane.”

The Joker leaned into her hand slightly and then yanked himself away. “Doc, you’d do that for little old me?” He almost looked...sheepish, innocent. Dare she say hopeful? None of the fervent passion for “revolutionary chaos” she’d seen last Friday.

“I’d do it for any patient,” Azelma said quickly. “Now why dontcha tell me about what’s on your mind today.”

Her patient shifted around in his chair. “Miss Azelma...last time you came to pick my brain, I told you about my  _ revolution _ .”

“Yeah. Why don’t we start there?”

“We-ell,” the Joker trilled, “we could. But there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you, doc. I do believe I left you a little, hmm,  _ dazzled _ . Why don’t you tell me something: when did you taste the chaos? When did you lose yourself in it?”

Azelma considered responding honestly. She truly entertained the thought. Telling such a personal story to a manipulative psychopath: what would the results be? Would he get under her skin, gain her sympathies? Did telling him the truth fall into her “let him lead the conversation and he’ll reveal himself to you” line of questioning? The hell with it. She was already under enough scrutiny. 

“You wanna know the truth, Mr. J?” Azelma challenged. “I beat my older sister bloody when I was fourteen. I punched her so hard I broke her nose. She was datin’ a horrible little gangbanger we called Monty. Monty hit her an’ abused her. She was a wild child who was turnin’ out just like our parents. I couldn’t let it happen, y’know? I had to be the big sister for once. So I told her, I said, ‘You dump Monty. You ditch his ass an’ we can try to salvage this.’ I’ve got three little brothers, Mr. J. When I was fourteen, the youngest was five. I was the smartest brat in the family, but I couldn’t take care ‘a three little kids on my own. An’ she got lippy. Mouthed off just a little too much, y’know? Called me a bitch, told to me to mind my own business. 

“I was just lookin’ out for the kids. Couldn’t take care ‘a the whole family and a sixteen-year-old. It wasn’t fair, an’ she was being stupid and selfish. So I threw a punch. Broke her nose on the first try. Blood came gushin’ out, and it was  _ intoxicating _ . She started screamin’ like a devil and I was just...so...mad. I jumped on her, straddled her chest. Slapped her silly! I slapped her ‘till her cheeks were bright red! An’ I started punchin’ too. I hit her ‘till she bled and bled some more. She stopped screamin’...eventually. Got real quiet. And then that was it. She said she’d break it off with Monty and do better as a big sister. Then she turns eighteen, marries a doctor, has a kid. She mellowed out. Adopted our younger brothers, an’ now my Eponine is a freakin’ stay-at-home mom!”

She crossed her arms and gave the Joker a challenging grin. “So there, Mr. J! That’s the first time I tasted real chaos, ‘an  _ I liked it _ .”  

The Joker grinned back horrifically and started to shriek with laughter. “Well, Azelma Thénardier, you little French minx!” He pounded the floor with his feet. “That was a knee-slapper right there! I didn’t think you had it in you, girl, I really didn’t. I thought you were gonna tell me some story about beating up a neighborhood bully, or some other righteous thing.”

“Not quite, Mr. J,” Azelma smirked. She felt wild, giddy almost. “Now you tell me somethin’: when was your first thrill?”

The Joker bared his teeth, leaned over the table until he was almost bent over it completely. Azelma found herself leaning over it as well. “Well, doc,” he purred, “I’d say that first thrill is right now.” With that, he was kissing her.

And professionalism and career and prodigies be damned, she was kissing him back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The story is about to finally pick up and get a tad...sexual. Warning y'all.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm sorry this chapter is short and late. I just started my senior year of high school and finished out the week. There's a long weekend coming up, so I'll try to have another chapter banged out before then!

She was kissing him. Oh, God. She was kissing the clown prince of crime, the most lethal mass-murderer in Gotham, the sadistic and manipulative  _ patient. _ .. It was becoming hard to keep up that line of thought when his tongue was gently exploring her mouth and he was biting her lip and -- “Ow!” she giggled. His tongue darted out to catch the dot of blood on her lip. She giggled again.

The Joker pulled back, then and smiled in a way that was almost...shy. “Why doc, I thought for sure you’d pull away from me.”

Azelma was flushed. His kiss was something else. She felt...she felt...intoxicated. “I couldn’t’ve if I wanted to,” she breathed. Reality suddenly caught up with her.  _ No, no, no, no. Stop this now. Stop this, idiot!!!  _ “I mean...Mr. J...we can’t do this.” She backed away from him, her eyes suddenly wide and her gut full of fear. “I-I’m sorry. I’m your...your therapist.” The table that kept them apart suddenly felt like a flimsy piece of paper. “This is wrong. You’re not -- this is...”

And then suddenly the Joker was upon her and her mumbles were silenced. Out of his straitjacket, he leapt like a monkey and knocked Azelma to the floor. The wind rushed from her lungs and she was left gasping to his kiss. The Joker left her no time to get her breath back until he saw it fit. When he finally pulled away, Azelma was air-deprived and nearly loopy; all she saw was the pale, floating face of an angel with scars like a demon. His pale blue eyes burned into her. “Ah-zell-muh,” the Joker whispered, “this  _ is  _ right.” He kissed her gently. “You know it. You’ve  _ known _ it, I think.” He stroked her face with long, slender fingers. “Yes, you have,” he decided for her. “You’ve known this was meant to be, doc. I hear how you natter on about professionalism, yet I never  _ see  _ it.” With that, the Joker was kissing her again, fierce and searing. And she was kissing him back and back and back, wrapping her arms around his neck, until he pulled away and adjusted his clothing. He paid her no attention.

Azelma was left on the floor, her skirt pushed around her waist, her glasses askew, and her lab coat nearly off. It looked like she’d been ravished. It felt like she had been ravished. She wanted to be ravished.  _ Wait, no! _ She jumped up, stumbling in her heels and nearly slipping the floor. The Joker caught her around the waist, apparently done with ignoring her. “No!” she said firmly. Her thoughts were spinning. “How’d you even get outta your straitjacket?” Maybe not the most pertinent question at the moment, but all her brain could process.    

“Sweetheart,” the Joker purred, “I’ve never been trapped in this crazy-vest. I stayed in so you’d, hmm, trust me.” He lazily twirled a lock of her hair around a finger.

Azelma yanked herself away.  _ Shit _ . She had just put herself in some very hot water. Or...maybe molten lava would more accurately sum up the situation. “That’s...you just...you’ve known how to get out the whole time?” she sputtered. “God! I’m, uh...”

“Yes, of course I knew how to get out. Can’t be a master criminal if silly straitjackets can trap you, huh, doc? I-- Why so nervous? Do I...scare you? Addle your brains?” He swept his arms out in a fantastical gesture, almost like a ringmaster. “Sugar, if I scare you, you’d better start _ running _ .” 

Azelma tried to ignore his posturing and the heat pooling low in her gut.  _ Think, think rationally. You’ve gotten yourself into this lava mess on your own, and you can get yourself out.  _ She took a deep breath and pushed her glasses up her nose. She straightened her clothes, steeled herself. “Mr. Joker, I’m gonna have to call the guards. I’d like you to sit down, please. I’ll make sure they don’ hurt you, and we can talk about keeping you out of a straightjacket and movin’ on to handcuffs.” She leveled what she hoped was a cool, scholarly gaze on her patient. “That was inappropriate ‘a the both of us, and I think it’d be best if we just forget it. I’ll say I removed your straitjacket as a form ‘a...risky therapy ‘cause I didn’t think you needed it. Then we won’t mention this again.”  _ If he opens his trap, I’ll be stripped of my credentials. They’ll fire me, no place will ever hire me again. I’ll live in shame. Just another little idiot manipulated by the Joker, exactly what Lucien Joly said I’d be. Oh, Jesus... _

The Joker sat down in his usual chair and leaned over the table, steepling his fingers. “Well, doc, you’ve got a fascinating proposition, you really do. I think what you forget here is that you’re trying to bargain with a, hmm, maniac. You’re not gonna get sanity from me, sweetheart. Look elsewhere.”

Azelma sighed and steeled herself. “O-of course. It’s well within your rights to...report me.”

What was once Julien Enjolras began to cackle. He yowled with laughter, positively shook with it. Hideous giggles spewed forth from his hideous mouth. And wasn’t that just the perfect word for him? _ Hideous _ . His puffy, bubbled scars peeled back from his bared teeth and produced that haunting, horrible sound. “Doc!” the Joker wailed. “You’re killing me, really killing me! You think I’m going to, hmm, report you?! I didn’t know you had a joke in you, doc, I didn’t! A real knee-slapper at that.” He snorted and snickered like a beast, then abruptly stopped. 

Azelma was unsure if the silence was more unnerving than his ghostly giggles. “A-a joke?”

He stood and stalked towards her, a wolfish glint in her eyes. The Joker stroked her face again and she found herself leaning into his hand. “Sweetheart, I think I’ve mixed up that smart little brain of yours.” He pulled his hand away from her face and she stumbled a bit. He tweaked her nose and smirked at her stumbling. “Ah, I see I did. I scrambled up your brains and left you a little dazzled, huh, pumpkin?” His voice was infuriatingly condescending. Azelma couldn’t find it in her to be angry. 

“A...a little bit,” she admitted. 

“Uh-huh,” the Joker simpered, tweaking her nose again. “Poor doctor Azelma, you’re just a teenager, really. A silly little love-sick kiddo, huh?” He didn’t seem to expect a response, as he said down again and looked to be thinking hard about something. “Sweetheart, I think I’ve addled your brains a little bit too much. You’re...mixed up now. You always want to be a professional, so earnest and eager, so helpful. But then you look at me like you want to, hmm, devour me.” He winked. “And you kiss me. You tell me about beating your older sister into submission just to impress me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had a...hmm...a crush. Now it’s been fun, doc, messing with that mind of yours, but I’m tired of this place. I think it’s time to...depart. Onwards and upwards, huh?!” The Joker giggled nastily and then abruptly stopped, his teasing done. “I think I’ll be taking you with me, doc. It’ll be a laugh.”

With that, he pressed the panic button on the wall, crushed Azelma tight to his side, and produced a handgun from a rusty vent in the wall. “Time to go make some smiles, huh, doc?” 


	5. Five

Azelma lay on a plush couch next to a large window, her eyes wide. Life felt incredibly surreal, the passage of time dreamlike. A child’s mobile hung above her head, the sunlight casting its comforting shapes onto the wall in watery waves of light. Pale pink stars and planets, baby blue rabbits and unicorns, orange hearts and kittens. It was a cluttered and colorful mix of shapes that swam before her eyes. _Phantasmagorical._ It was the word that came to mind, something that she’d read once in a book but never spoken aloud. “Phantasmagorical.” She whispered the word, then, just to make sure she could still speak. Her thoughts were blank and meaningless, watery as the mobile’s colorful shadows.

Somewhere, in another universe, a door slammed open with enough force to rattle the windows. Heavy footsteps pounded around, someone screamed, and a gun fired. Someone was yelling something, and the thunderous footsteps were coming closer.  Closer. Someone was entering her little room, invading the peaceful solitude and --

“Ah-zell-muh,” a voice purred, both dangerous and pleading. “Get up, cupcake. C’mon, doc. It’s been hours.” The patience and pleading very much strained. “I took you with me, doc, for your spirit. Don’t go, hmm, chickening out on me, huh?” A shaky hand stroked through her hair for a moment before quickly being retracted. “I don’t...she didn’t seem weak before, Vic. Swear it! I think the escape dizzied her up a bit. You’d think she’d never seen a dead body before.”

A big hand roughly turned Azelma to face the voices. Her brown eyes beheld the Joker, face painted deathly white and red, and some nameless goon. The goon looked vaguely Middle Eastern, with golden skin and jet-black curls. He was built like a Greek god. “Hiya, doc,” the goon said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “I understand you might be sort of scared and mixed up right now. It’s alright, though. I’m Bahorel. Victor Bahorel, actually. Call me whatever. Boss calls me Vic.” He ran a hand through his curls. “Uh, you’ve been in a sort of a stupor for a couple hours. I...I’m tasked with takin’ care of you. Think you can get up now?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just yanked Azelma to her feet. She tottered in her heels. “There you are, doc. All better.” He let go of her, then, and she struggled not to fall.

Time felt real again, suddenly. A rush of tunnel vision and there it was: she had busted out of the Asylum with the Joker as he gleefully shot up the place, had watched him murder six guards and shoot Dr. Javert in the knee, had listened to the wailing alarms and screams. Everything became clear in a rush of tears and adrenalin. Azelma began to shake softly. “Mr...Mr J,” she stammered.

The Joker’s bright red grin was like a rotten peach splitting open. “There you are, doc,” he said. His wild blonde curls had been dyed a neon shade of green. He now wore an immaculate purple suit. Everything on his person clashed so much it somehow went together. “This is the, uh, _real me_ , as it were. I think we’ve gotta find the real you now.”

Azelma looked desperately from the goon -- Vic? -- to the Joker. “I...I...” she stuttered. Words wouldn’t make it past her lips.

“Well, let’s get you acquainted to your new life, cupcake. See if that won’t get some words out of you.” The Joker grabbed Azelma by the arm and tugged her across the floor, away from the couch and the window and her shapes. He led her to a heavy steel door, which he pushed open with ease. They went down a spiral staircase, which led Azelma to believe her little room was at the very top of some building. She’d been in such a state of shock when she’d been brought here that she hadn’t observed her surroundings at all. It became clear that they were in some sort of abandoned, multi-floor warehouse. Perhaps her room had been a break room of some kind at one time.

They went down, down, down to what appeared to be ground floor of the warehouse. A few dozen men milled around, some appearing to be building various contraptions, others looking like they were pretending to work. “Hello, boys!” the Joker shouted. He pulled a gun from somewhere within his suit and fired a few shots at the ceiling. “Looks like you aren’t working as I asked you to!” The crowd of henchmen quickly got busy, but evidently that didn’t please the Joker either. He fired two more shots at the ceiling. “Next one goes into someone’s head!” he crowed. “Boys, let me, ah, introduce you to my newest...plaything. Her name is Dr. Azelma Thenardier, and she’s, hmm, here to stay.”

Some minions wandered over, glancing nervously at their boss. “Hi, miss,” said a short ginger man with freckles splashed all across his face. He dragged one leg behind him when he walked, and was missing several fingers on his left hand. “I’m Masselin Feuilly. Uh, the guys ‘round here call me Firebug.”

A young Mexican approached, bespectacled and smiling. He was taller than the Joker, but looked almost...timid. He inclined his head gently to the left. “That’s Robin de Courfeyrac, miss,” Firebug said. “Boss took Courf's tongue out ‘cause he was, um, a lecturer at Gotham U in his old life. Boss thought it’d be better if Courf, um, was silent from now on.

Azelma wanted to vomit. She looked to the former professor, reached towards him. “Mr...Mr. J did that to ya?” she found the energy to ask.

Courf, as Firebug called him, nodded. He had a blithe smile on his face. The man clapped his hands twice, drew a circle on his right palm with his pointer finger, and then clasped his hands together tightly. He looked to the small ginger man.

“Oh. Uh, he says he’s much happier now. Says Boss made him a better person. He’s real grateful, miss. None of his students could understand him before, see, ‘cause he’s from Haiti. Now that he’s all mute, he gets to invent his own language and be understood. It’s, uh, special for him. I understand his language, so I translate.”

Courf snapped his fingers twice, lifted a pinkie, and slammed his thumb into his palm rather forcefully.

“He says he’s happy, miss, true and honest. Says he’ll be your friend in no time. Boss is gone a lot, so it’s gonna be up to me, Vic, and Courf to take care of you. We’ll keep the other guys from comin’ after you. You’re, uh, pretty and young, and some of the guys are real, uh, scumbags.”

The Joker grabbed her arm again, tight and impatient. “Well, that’s enough of an introduction for now, hmm? I’m sure you’ll get acquainted with the rest of them sooner or later. I’ve got plans for you, sweetheart.” He marched her across the warehouse, where a few of the henchmen wolf-whistled at her. She ignored it.

A short and chubby man booked it across the large, empty space. He huffed and puffed as he caught up to them. “Heya, Boss!” he said, giving Azelma a disgusting look with his watery little eyes. “I didn’ think you were much for kidnappin’ whores.” He gave a chuckle full of bad intentions. “Pretty kid ya got here. Dressed up all classy-like, too. Lab coat and everything, huh. Maybe when you’re finished we could all...uh...get a turn?”

Azelma whimpered. The Joker gripped her arm tighter. “You wanna turn, huh? A turn with my doc?” He pulled his gun again and then shot the fat goon in the face. “There’s your turn.” He turned to the rest of his henchmen. “BOYS, IF IT’S NOT CLEAR, AZELMA IS _MINE._ She’s no whore, my doc. She’s...Azazel.”


	6. Six

She sat quietly in the back of a car, hands folded in her lap. Azelma’s black skirt and dark red sweater were smoothed down. Her glasses were perfectly straight, her heels shiny and strapped neatly. She’d lost her white lab coat somewhere along the way, and her curls were a bit frizzier than usual, but other than that, the doctor was the picture of a young professional. The warehouse district of Gotham rushed by outside the window. She gazed listlessly at the blur of gray-buildings-gray-sky-gray-streets, her thoughts muddled.  Feuilly the Firebug sat next squashed next to her, looking uncomfortable in a suit. He tugged on his curly orange hair. Azelma idly wondered why the Joker seemed to only surround himself with curly-haired people. Her psychologist’s brain was whirring somewhere under the misty clouds of terror and panic. 

“Uh, miss,” the man next to her whispered nervously. “Sorry, um, but...Boss is gonna want you happy. He - he doesn’t keep people around for long if they don’t please him, y’know?” He shifted around awkwardly, obviously trying not to jostle the tall Mexican man on the other side of the car. Lord knew why the Joker had decided all of his closest goons had to ride in the same car as Azelma on the way to the location he had decided to drag them to. 

Courfeyrac shook Feuilly’s knee and made a series of complicated and confusing hand gestures. He looked earnest. 

“‘Courf is right, miss. He says that Boss means, um, he means what he says. He says he likes his boys to please him. We dunno why he brought you here, but Boss doesn’t recruit kids. He doesn’t recruit girls. It’s been floating around that you were his, uh, doctor at the, um, the  Abaissés. Courf says he doesn’t think the Joker wants any extra psychological help, no offense meant, miss, It's our job to protect you, and we’re gonna, but what Boss wants comes first, y’know?” The small man grimaced. “Uh, sorry about that one. Courf’s words, not mine. So...uh...grim stuff and warnings aside, ya wanna tell us a little bit about yourself? Maybe you could get happy that way.”

Azelma opened her mouth, started to say something, then closed it. She crossed her legs neatly. “My-my name is Azelma,” she mumbled. 

“There’s a start!” Firebug explained excitedly. “Vic’s gonna be happy to hear you talking, miss.” Victor Bahorel, the giant Middle Eastern goon who had been tasked with taking care of her personally, was up front next to someone she’d been briefly introduced to. He was a gangly young thing, androgynous and ethereal. They called him Jehan. “So, um, Boss mentioned that you’re kinda a kid, right? But still a doctor? How’s that?”

Azelma, despite her cloudy mind, couldn’t help but smile a bit at the goofy ginger’s endless nattering. He didn’t seem like a bad man. “I was a real smart kid,” she said cautiously. “Excelled at a ton ‘a stuff. I did high school pretty young an’ then I became a doctor.”   

“That’s pretty remarkable, miss! I didn’t do high school,” Firebug said cheerfully. “I burned mine down.” Azelma accepted this with stunned silence. He took it as encouragement to go on as opposed to mute horror. “You’re, um, eighteen, miss? You woulda been only...uh...nine when I did it, but what a blaze! Huh, Courf? What a blaze. The press hid it real well. But I killed a hundred people.” He crossed his arms with a look of smug satisfaction. “That’s why Boss chose me. He brought me in when I was fifteen. You’re the only other kid I’ve ever seen brought in. He just doesn’t do it, miss, like I said!” 

The car slid to a smooth halt in front of...a theme park? Gotham Fungrounds, a place Azelma had always wanted to go to as a kid. She had been too busy studying or avoiding her parents. “The theme park?” she questioned.

Courf did jazz hands and gave a silent chuckle. Firebug laughed. “He said it’s gonna be a blast.” The two men exited the car, and Vic came around to open Azelma’s door.

“Hiya, doc! You’re in for a fun day!” he cried, grabbing Azelma’s hand and yanking her out of the car. She teetered, and he grabbed her arm roughly to steady her. “Boss really put out all the works for ya. He always lays low for a while after escapin’ from the Ah-bay-say. He’s going big -- and on the same day he escaped. You’re a lucky doc.” 

Azelma gave a strained smile, confused beyond belief. She was escorted over teo a second car by goon entourage. Someone who had once been known as Julien Enjolras unfolded himself from a car, leafy green curls resplendent and face paint shiny and fresh. Something deep within her twisted pleasurably at the sight of him. “Mr. J,” she said quietly. She tried to think back to the escape from the hospital that morning, but her mind had formed the event into a hazy red cloud. That...helped a bit.

He held his arms out. “Hello, my Azazel!” he yelled, spreading his arms like a showman. “You’ve had quite the traumatizing day, huh? I’ve decided to show you a good time!”

His lewd grin made Azelma think perhaps he had something more in mind.

XXX

Jean-Pierre held his big sister’s iPhone, excitedly typing out a text to his other big sister. Eponine was usually pretty controlling over her phone, but she’d decided he could have twenty minutes to play games or talk to Azelma. Astor had to babysit Alphonse (ha!) because Gav was out with friends. He was lying down on the top bunk of his bed, legs crossed. He typed out a text to Azelma, using all capital letters. “HI ZEE. THIS IS JP. EPONINE SAID I CAN TALK TO YOU FOR 20 MINUTES U SHOULD TEXT ME BACK SOON. I’M GONNA PLAY CANDY CRUSH NOW BECAUSE EPONINE SAYS I CAN. OK GOODBYE.”  

He began to play his game, thinking himself an expert. The phone suddenly started ringing. It was Azelma! JP abandoned his Candy Crush game and answered excitedly. “Hi, Zee! I get to talk to you ‘cause ‘Ponine is busy cleaning or something! I was wonderin’ if I could come sleep over at your house soon and you could tell me about the crazies like you promised. Also, I decided I’m gonna be a basketball star like Astor. I’m getting real good at it too! Also, um, I cut open my knee doin’ layups an’ Gav told me my leg is gonna fall off but I don’ think he’s right.” His little monologue over, JP took some deep breaths. 

“Hello, little boy,” a ghoulish voice said. “Aren’t you quite the talker.”

“You’re not Zee,” JP said slowly.

A scary, scary laugh filled JP’s ear. It went on so long he had to pull the phone away. This was all wrong. “Quite the observer too,” the voice snickered. “Little boy, is Azelma your big sister?”

“Yeah,” JP said. “Who are you?”

“Just a silly old clown who happens to be your big sister’s, hmm, good friend,” the voice responded. “We’re at an amusement park right now and we’re having a very fun time. I asked your sister to come live with me, and she said she’d love to, but only if she could bring her best brother. Would you like to talk to her, kiddo?” There was a bit of scuffling and some murmuring on the other end of the phone.

“Hi, JP,” his big sister said quietly. 

“Zee!” Jean-Pierre cried. “Who took your phone? He sounded all crazy and he laughed! It was real scary. Was that one ‘a your friends or something?”

“That was Mr. J,” Zee said. “I’m gonna stick with him from now on, kiddo. I-I was wonderin’ if you wanted to come over for a sleepover with me an’ Mr. J. He’d like to meetcha.”

JP sat up and looked around his bedroom. For some reason, his eyes locked on an action figure. He’d had the toy since he was like six, just some stupid villain with a big mouth and big claws. Mr. J...he sort of reminded him of a villain. “Zee, I dunno,” he said slowly. “You sound kinda scared and the guy...Mr. J...he sounds bad. He said you were gonna live with him forever and you said I had to live with you too.”

“I just...I just miss you, chatterbox. You always say you wanna live in my apartment and it’s real crowded in Ep’s house, isn’t it? Just come to the Fungrounds at least, huh? We can go on rides an’ get cotton candy an’ have fun. Wanna do that?”

“Uh, okay,” JP said. He just felt weird about this whole thing. But he was getting to hang out with his big sister and her new friend, and Azelma would never let him get hurt. Maybe her friend was just a weird guy. JP knew plenty of weird people. One kid in his class still sucked her thumb. In fourth grade! “Lemme go ask--”

Azelma cut him off quickly. “No! JP, you listen to me good, okay? Today is a special day just for us. You don’ have to ask Eponine or anyone. I want you to take your school backpack and pack for a sleepover. Like if you were gonna have a sleepover for a couple days. Then I want you to walk right out the front door an’ go to the bus stop. Y’know the one I always get on when I go home from your house? Go to the very end of the bus line. Then you an meet me at the Fungrounds, huh? We can have our special day and you can get some real freedom. Takin’ the bus by yourself!” His big sister’s voice sounded desperate but also excited. There were so many emotions in her voice it was hard for a nine-year-old to really grasp them.

“I don’t gotta ask anyone? Did you, um, did you already get ‘Ponine’s permission?” He was almost desperate to hear Azelma say yes.

“Yeah, chatterbox, yeah sure. Ep knows. Now c’mon. Mr. J an’ I are gonna be expecting you in an hour, okay?”

“Okay, Zee,” JP said quietly, grabbing some clothes and stuffing them in his backpack. He was confused, so confused. “Okay, see ya soon.” He hung up quickly and left the phone on his bed before scurrying out the front door.

XXX

Nicolas Grantaire was at a charity benefit dancing with some beautiful and meaningless woman in an equally beautiful and meaningless dress. She was attempting to get his attention, nattering away about her charitable contributions to various organizations that year. He nodded in all the right places, gifted her with a smile now and then. When the band mercifully ended the jazzy tune they’d been dancing to, he murmured, “Thank you for coming.” He then quickly made his escape to the mini bar.

“What can I get you tonight, Mr. Grantaire?” the bartender asked politely.

“Just water,” Grantaire chuckled. “Unfortunately I’ll be staying sharp tonight.” He was handed a whiskey glass full of water and drank it quickly. For Gotham’s most famous socialite, he sure could get tired of socializing. Grantaire leaned against the bar with closed eyes before taking a look around the beautiful ballroom his latest gala was being held in. It was lavishly decorated with deep red drapes over every window, a massive chandelier sparkling from the ceiling, and commissioned tapestries adorning the walls. 

He felt a soft yet urgent tap on his shoulder. “Sir.”

It was his butler, a handsome and kindly man named Jean Valjean. They exchanged a look, and Grantaire nodded. “Excuse me,” he acknowledged the bartender, and hastily took his leave.

“Sir, there’s been a breakout from the Abaissés,” Valjean murmured quietly. “The Joker has gone missing, and he took a young doctor with him, his personal therapist. Do you recall the prodigy girl that made the headlines some time back?”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah, sure. But...she’s just a kid. What could be possibly want with her?” This diverged from the Joker’s usual behavior so intensely it left him grasping. The Joker took no prisoners and always killed his hostages. He’d never exhibited the need to take women for sexual purposes either. Unless the girl was his partner in crime or something, it left no options. 

“No idea, sir,” Valjean admitted. “There’s more bad news, though. The Joker killed six guards in his escape. There have been reported sightings of him at the Gotham Fungrounds.”

Grantaire scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed. “Alright, Jean. Take me home. Let’s go deal with this clown.”     


	7. Seven

Jean-Pierre sat quietly on the bus, his backpack in his lap. He’d been on for almost an hour and the sun was getting lower and lower in the sky. At first, the bus had been crowded with people of all different ages and races. It was sort of fun to watch all the different people. Two teenage girls in headscarves who had gotten on talked loudly about how cute some boy was for almost twenty minutes. A man tried to control his four little kids until he gave up and let a kid who was maybe two run up and down the bus screaming. Three old ladies came on and called the little kids “sweet cheeks” and “precious dear” even when they all pitched fits at the same time. It was kind of stressful and dizzying with all the noise, but it was still cool. A guy who wore an eyepatch even sat down next to JP for a few minutes and mumbled something about “the war.” 

As the time dragged on, though, everybody got off. The eyepatch guy, the old ladies, the dad and his kids, the teenagers -- they all left. Finally, JP was alone on the bus, clutching his backpack and trying not to cry. He’d never taken the bus alone before, and it was actually quite scary. Finally, they rolled to a stop in front of the Gotham Fungrounds.

“Hey, kiddo! Last stop,” the bus driver called. She was a big African-American lady who looked kind enough. 

“O-okay,” JP said. He got up, shrugged on his backpack. “I’m getting off here.”

“Dunno why you are,” the bus driver said conversationally as he walked to the front of the bus. “The Fungrounds close at six.”

JP shrugged. He didn’t bother telling the lady that he actually didn’t wanna get off there. “I’m meeting my sister here,” he said quietly. “My sister and her friend.”

“Weird place to meet, but it’s no skin off my nose,” the woman said. When JP looked at her nametag, he saw that her name was Shawna. “Have a good day, honey.”

“Thank you.” The bus doors slid open with a hiss and the cool autumn air hit JP like a slap in the face. He wanted to stay on the bus with Shawna badly. He almost asked her to take him home, he really did. JP took a deep breath before stepping off the bus. He waved as Shawna pulled away and turned to meet his fate. 

XXX

Azelma felt sick. Mr. J wanted her to live with him from now on. That’s what he said. He wanted to be a happy, sick little family. Right after he’d let her know that -- on the top of a roller coaster -- he’d screamed, “Say, my Azazel, don’t you have a family?!”

The cars were climbing the next hill by the time Azelma had caught her breath enough to pant, “Yes!” 

The Joker had cackled madly. “I remember when you told me about beating your older sister, you had hmm...baby brothers. How old is the littlest one? Is he still young?”

“Nine,” Azelma wheezed, then screamed as the roller coaster rushed down the hill.

When they were off the coaster and on solid ground, Mr. J had wrapped her in his arms -- God, the contact was maddening -- and murmured, “I’m not done with the Thénardiers just yet. Call up that young and, ah, malleable young brother of yours. Eventually I’ll be needing a...successor of sorts.” He smacked his lips together hideously.   

She didn’t want Jean-Pierre --innocent and good little Jean-Pierre-- anywhere near her and the Joker. She’d begged and pleaded, raged and sobbed, even threatened to call the police. The Joker had just cackled. Nothing she said or did would convince him to leave JP out of this. She’d suffered through an evening of tilt-a-whirls, cotton candy, and bumper cars. She’d nearly vomited several times before calling JP up and asking him to meet them down at the Fungrouds.  _ I’m so sorry _ , she thought as her russet-haired brother came bounding towards her.

“Zee!” he cried, running into her arms. “Oh, jeez, I was so scared. I rode the bus all by myself an’ there were all different people on it, but then it was just me! Are you okay? What’s goin’ on? Who’s Mr. J?”

“Chatterbox, calm down,” Azelma murmured into his curls. She held him out at arm’s length. “I’m gonna say some things and you gotta listen real close now, okay? It’s serious.” Her little brother nodded fearfully. “JP, Mr. J is one ‘a  my patients at the Asylum. He’s called the Joker, and he’s a real dangerous individual who’s committed a lotta crimes. I’m his doctor. He escaped the Asylum and now I have to live with him or somethin’.” Her little brother’s eyes were big and he was taking quick, shallow breaths. 

“I’ve heard ‘a the Joker. Eponine says he’s a-a terrorist.” Jean-Pierre’s eyes begged her to contradict him.

Azelma took a deep breath. “Mr. J has done some real bad things. I can’t lie to you, kiddo. But you have to stay here with me and be strong. You’re gonna live with us now. I dunno how long it’s gonna be, but please just do what he says. Mind him, y’know? He thinks you’re  real special kid, and he wants you to...he wants to teach you things. I’m so, so sorry that you’re mixed up in this, kiddo. I won’t letcha get hurt. It could be fun, like a pretend game.”

“AH-ZELL-MUH!” The purring shout rolled across the boardwalk.The Joker, in his immaculate purple suit, was strolling quickly towards them. She crushed JP to her side, and for once he didn’t squirm away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist tightly. 

“H-hiya, Mr. J,” Azelma called. “Don’t be scared, kiddo, just be...” Before she could finish her whispered advice, the Joker had reached them. “This is Jean-Pierre. We call him JP.” She pushed him towards the madman, hating every second of it.

The Joker snatched JP’s hand and pumped it up and down comically. “Nice to meet you, little boy!” he shouted. “I’m the Joker.” He pulled a daisy from somewhere within his suit and handed it off to JP. It squirted water in his face. To Azelma’s surprise, her little brother giggled and shook the water off of him like a wet dog. “Good boy!” the Joker chuckled, pleased. “Now tell me, kid, do you... _ love _ your big sister?”

“Uh-huh,” JP answered immediately. “I love Zee so much. She’s one ‘a the best people in the world.” For once, he kept his endless chatter to a minimum. 

“Good to hear that you think so. Do you understand why you’re here, Johnny boy?” Mr. J asked, tugging JP away from her and wrapping his arm around the boy. It was terrifying, but almost...sweet. 

“Um...” JP looked to Azelma for reassurance; she nodded encouragingly. “Well, uh, Zee said you wanna teach me things. I guess...to learn things from you? And to mind you.” He nodded to himself. “I think that’s it, Mr. J.”

The Joker cackled, delighted, and JP flinched. “Something like that! I figured having you around would ease your sisters, ah, transition. I won’t live forever, unfortunately, and I’ll need someone to spread the madness and chaos. Eventually. All in good time.” He looked almost...uncomfortable, but quickly shook it off. “Anyhow, kid, let’s get you to your babysitters.” He snapped his fingers and Feuilly limped over, dragging his bum leg behind him. “Take the boy, Firebug. Treat him well. Train the kid a little or take him on some rides or something.” He waved dismissively, having lost interest in JP for the moment.

Azelma walked over to JP and knelt down, putting her hands on his shoulders and looking deeply into her eyes. “You can trust Firebug, chatterbox. And Vic and Courf. ‘Member those names, okay, JP? It’s gonna be okay. Just try to have fun with the boys. I’ll catch up with you soon.” Her young brother walked away, fearful, and all she could do was watch.

Suddenly, she felt the Joker’s hand on the small of her back. “C’mon, doc, how about we visit the tunnel of love?” he pulled, nibbling the shell of her ear. “The boys have the kid. They’ll keep him safe.” 

Azelma’s mind was in a flurry. Her sweet young brother, freckle-splatted and bloody-haired, was in this game with her. She had to look out for him. The Joker wanted her -- clearly, he wanted her. She...she wanted him too. She’d kissed him and embraced him, admitted her secrets to him. Although...those secrets were missing some parts. She didn’t let him know that she’d beat her older sister after she’d been caught fucking Monty. Then she’d decided that Monty needed to get out of their lives. She had a wicked side to her. Mr. J knew that. But JP...JP and her other brothers. Her job at the Asylum. Her prodigy status. Her professionalism and ambition.

But she had so much anger, so much resentment. They treated her with condescension and derision. They were constantly underestimating her because of her age. Calling her a petulant teenager, someone guided purely by emotion, as if she wasn’t a fucking doctor. Fuck them. Maybe...maybe they deserved it. She could watch out for JP and make sure Mr. J treated him well. She could hang out with the boys, learn what this kinda life was. Maybe it would help JP grow up a little bit.

She looked at Mr. J, gave him a grin that was more of a baring of teeth. “Tunnel of love it is!”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. I want to apologize most profusely for not updating for almost a month. I feel absolutely terrible and promise it won't happen again, but I do have a valid excuse. I injured my wrist/elbow/hand really badly about a month ago by falling up a slope and then having my body weight land on it. I'm so fucking clumsy. It's a really bad sprain and typing with a brace on is an absolute BITCH. I'm also taking eight classes as a senior in high school (full course load), applying for colleges, directing a play, and currently preparing for my dance concert. I will update more frequently. I PROMISE. Please enjoy this chapter!!

Once upon a time, there were two young boys. These boys were the best of friends. They both went to an elite private school in Gotham City. It was a beautiful place on top of a hulking grassy hill, backed by a thick, verdant forest. The school looked like a Gothic castle plucked from a tale of vampires and madness. The halls were long and dim, lined with tapestries and pictures of frowning alumni.

One of the young boys was born into wealth. His family stock was that of proud French immigrants who had clawed their way into wealth and stayed there. The family owned half of Gotham, the children at the private school snidely remarked, and weren't afraid to show it by plastering their name all over everything. Everyone knew this young boy by his last name and his deceptively dark skin tone.

The other boys whispered of the Guatemalan woman Mr. Thomas Grantaire had met on a business trip, Martina, and their whirlwind romance. They scoffed at how the Grantaire family abhorred her, and demanded she be called Martha to make her sound “more proper.” (“More white, they mean,” remarked the school’s only African-American girl, Jeannie Friday, who sympathized with this young boy’s plight.) The stories varied from there, but they all ended the same: true love was found and Nicolas Grantaire was born just a year after Thomas and “Martha” were married. Those who told the story would then get awkward, running their hands through their hair or glancing to the sides. They would then announce that Thomas and Martina-Martha were murdered in an alley in front of their son when he was ten. They would say it was just a random mugging gone wrong. They would then mention that after his month-long departure from school, Nicolas was never really the same. He got quieter, more introspective. Then the story would end, and the person telling it would never get the gossipy thrill they had hoped for, instead feeling vaguely sad and unsettled.

Nicolas never asked for the attention his name gave him. He understood his privilege. Though the school was elite, it offered scholarships to less fortunate students, and he went out of his way to befriend them. They were less pretentious because of their lack of wealth. They had no airs to put on, so they were purely themselves. Besides, ever since the ten million therapists he saw diagnosed him with PTSD, anxiety, and depression, big groups of people were out of the picture anyway. So Nicolas lived his quiet, privileged, and undeniably sad existence.

One day, another young boy with a French name arrived at the school. He was one of the underprivileged youth allotted a scholarship, and from the moment he came to the school, he was determined to prove himself different from his peers. He would not be snobby like them, act as if he owned the world just because he went to an elementary-middle for rich kids. He would not be cast aside as some poor kid who got lucky, either. He would make a name for himself, invent a box to fit into, and that box would be comedian!! Wit was this young boy’s favorite thing in the world. Comedy was a lost art in his lofty opinion. He hoped to make his peers laugh. No one understood his humor at his old school, but that was just that. When he was a successful and world-renowned comedian, everyone would be laughing! And everyone would know his name: Julien Enjolras. What better place to start than at Gotham Hills Prep?

On Julien’s first day at the elite school, he strolled through the gloomy halls with confidence. He smirked at the photos of the grim alumni that lined the walls. He floated through his classes with ease, cracking jokes at every turn. No one really laughed, but it was alright. He still had time. At lunch, he sauntered into the lunchroom, scanning the tables for where he would be most welcome to sit.

And that was when they locked eyes.

Nicolas Grantaire, sitting by himself, was the first to crack a smile. He knew this boy was new. Already the children were gossiping about how he wisecracked the teachers and told weird jokes that nobody understood.  (“You just said being a mathematician is as as important as being a cop or a lawyer,” he had remarked to the teacher in first period math. “Did math solve all the murders that have happened over the years?” Then he had laughed and laughed while everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats, thinking of their peer whose parents had been gunned down.) So what if only two class periods had gone by? Already this kid was deemed a creep.

Nicolas waved the boy over to his little corner table. It was the smallest table in the lunchroom. When the new boy got there, he was smirking as if he knew some great secret. “Hi, there,” Nicolas said with a smile. “You must be Julien. I’m--”

“I know who you are,” Julien said, still smirking. “Nicolas Grantaire, racially confusing and richer than the boy King Tut.” Before Nicolas could get wrap his mind around the weird insult, the boy went on. ‘We’re studying Egypt in history class. Apparently Tut married his sister. Y’know, buddy, they’ve got a lot to say about you here. Some people say you’re the nicest person ever. Other people say you’re the...gonna use the quote here from Jeannie Friday...’lovechild of a maid and a rich white daddy.’” He sat down in the chair across from Nicolas and pulled a sandwich from his backpack. “Don’t let the bastards get ya down, buddy! Only the most interesting people get gossiped about that much. They’ve got a lot to say about me too, huh? Don’t like my comedy, I bet. Best compliment I’ve gotten all day was from Jeannie - she’s in all my classes - ‘You’re a weirdo, but you sure know a lot about historical facts!’”

Nicolas absorbed this monologue in silence. The new boy was acting just like the gossip said: cocky and weird and unsettling. His eyes bugged when Julien took apart the slices of white bread that made up his sandwich. Marshmallow fluff was slathered thickly over one slice, bright pink jam over the other one. Pixie Stick dust covered the marshmallow fluff and crumbled up potato chips covered the pink jam. He reached into his lunch sack and pulled out a baggie of apple slices and shredded carrots, and proceeded to add these to his sandwich. “Jesus Christ,” Nicolas finally said as he watched the class creep take a bite of the monstrosity.  

“Y’know, some people say Jesus Christ was black,” Julien casually remarked. “The most holy man to ever walk the earth, and he was the housemaid or lawn guy of these rich brats.” He glanced over to the famous Grantaire boy and saw the look his food was getting. He smiled. “Oh, the sandwich? I eat it every day! Lots of different textures and flavors. It’s chaos for sure!” He took a big bite of his sandwich. “Want a bite?”

“Um, sure.”

Julien passed the sandwich over to Nicolas, whose lunch was very utilitarian and boring: an apple, a carton of milk, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a bag of mixed greens. He took a bite and made a face like someone had slapped him. “Bet you think it’s nasty,” Julien said with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, uh, I’m not the biggest fan in the world, but it’s very...creative,” Nicolas offered. He began to eat his own lunch. “So, what made you switch to Gotham Hills Prep?” The question was made in an effort to elicit some normal responses from the new boy. Already he could see other kids in the lunchroom smirking at them.

“Scholarship,” Julien responded around a mouth full of fluff, jam, apples, and whatever the hell else. He saw the rich boy’s eyes wandering around. It wasn’t hard to see why. The brats had to be staring. In a lunchroom this nice, with polished wooden floors, generously sized tables, and a ceiling that soared high above their heads, only a true loser would sit alone. Only two true losers would be alone together. Julien wasn’t sure what Nicolas Grantaire’s angle was here. Just because he was gossiped about didn’t mean he lacked for friends. Just because he was one of the only kids of color in the school didn’t mean his mostly-white peers iced him out. He was handsome, with curly black hair, pale brown skin, and a crooked smile that girls probably found charming.

Little did Julien know he was being analyzed just as thoroughly. Nicolas was trying to figure this strange comedian out. He was devastatingly handsome -- as much as a twelve-year-old could be, of course -- but seriously, he was _beautiful_. He was pale and angular with cheekbones sharp as knife points. His blonde curls almost hid his electric blue eyes, but not quite. His nose was large and pointed, went well with his long, striking face. He was knowledgeable and interesting and articulate. So maybe his humor wasn’t exactly funny and he lacked a basic understanding of social cues. It was just...he was beautiful. Finally, Nicolas realized they had been staring at each other for an inappropriate amount of time.

And so the friendship began.

As the months went on, the boys became inseparable. Nicolas’s congenial personality went well with Julien’s intensity. They ate lunch together every day and spent time with each other every day after school. The cavernous halls of the Grantaire Manor became like a second home to Julien, who decided going by J was much easier. He started to call Nicolas Nic: his first nickname. It was a strange friendship by anyone’s standards, and it wasn’t uncommon for the paparazzi to be sighted around J’s humble brownstone in a lower middle class area of Gotham. “YOUNG NICOLAS AND HIS NEW BEST BUDDY PASS THE TIME PLAYING VIDEO GAMES IN COZY BROWNSTONE” was a headline they both found ridiculous.

“So why comedy?” Nic asked his friend one day as they lounged around in his bedroom. It was a huge, airy room that was about as big as J’s entire first floor. The walls were painted sky blue and a giant skylight made up half of the slanted ceiling. He was lying on the king sized bed staring up at the rainy sky through his ceiling. J was on the carpeted floor scribbling down jokes in a notebook he took everywhere.

“So, how about this one?” J asked. “Okay, so there’s these two guys locked up in an insane asylum--”

“Too dark,” Nic said without thought. He spent much of his time critiquing his best friend’s jokes.

“Mmm,” the blonde boy responded, scribbling away in his little notebook. There was a comfortable silence between them for a moment until J looked up again. “What’d you ask me before?”

“Why comedy? You’re always trying to make people laugh, J, and it...well, it never really works,” Nic said softly, unsure of how to approach the issue. He tried to focus on the individual raindrops hitting the skylight. “Your jokes are kind of...off. They’re dark, and sometimes they don’t even make sense.”

Julien looked up, his electric eyes boring into Nic’s. The eye contact was uncomfortable, just like a lot of their interactions. They held it for maybe an entire minute. “Real life isn’t funny,” J finally snarled. “Real life is shit.”

“J, there are plenty of good things in the world,” Nic said softly. “Real life isn’t shit.” He loved his best friend, he really did, but he sometimes felt like J thought he was better than everyone and everything. His crazy intelligence didn’t help his narcissism either.

“Easy for you to say, rich boy,” J growled. He felt furious with Nic all of the sudden. “Life has been great for you. You’ve got a silver spoon in your mouth, and don’t you dare deny it. You’re sitting on a throne above the rest of us. Even your last name gives you power. I live in a shitty brownstone with a dad who drinks all the time and a mom who does nothing but try to please him. Why wouldn’t I want something funny in my life?” People had always praised him for speaking so eloquently for his age. A seventh grader who was as well-spoken as a college student. Maybe these big words would be enough to bore through Nicolas Grantaire’s thick, rich head.

“At least you have a mom and dad,” Nic answered quietly.

They never talked about J’s comedy again.

Since he and Nic had no classes together, J was often left alone with Jeannie Friday. She was brutally honest, but tried her best to be sweet, and had even started to laugh at his jokes. She often defended him against bullies, and he did the same for her. In class, their friendship was a ferocious affair. Jeannie would start each day with a loud, witty joke about her white classmates and receive glares and sulky mutters. J would joke back that he may have been white, but at least he wasn’t “the one percent.” They everyone uncomfortable together, and it was bliss.

In eighth grade, J realized he was well and truly in love with Jeannie. Every time her pale brown eyes met his blue ones, it was like she was seeing down to his core. Honesty, being her defining characteristic, was what she could see in other people. And when she joined J and Nic on escapades, she saw something in Nic that he was very...unsettled at.

It happened one Wednesday afternoon in January. Snow had settled all around Grantaire Manor like frosting on a large, expensive cake. The three young teens, all recently thirteen, were in the living room playing video games when J announced that he was going to go after Jean Valjean, Nic’s butler, if he could make some cookies. He wandered away.

Jeannie turned that intense brown gaze on Nic. “We’ve known each other a long time, huh?” she said casually.

Nic leaned into the soft leather of the couch, staring at the paused game screen. “Yeah, since kindergarten.”

“I’m glad we’re friends now. I mean, we knew each other before, but we’re _friends_ now.” Her eyes were boring into his head.

Nic turned to face the girl. She was short, curvy, and pretty, with high cheekbones and a curly afro that framed her face beautifully. He was sure that in another life, he would have had a crush on her. “Yeah, Jeannie. I’m really glad we’re friends too.” He smiled at her, unsettled despite her kind words. It was just Nic’s luck that his two best friends possessed the ability to make people uncomfortable even when they were being nice.

“Y’know, I notice things about people, things that most people don’t notice,” Jeannie remarked, finally focusing her eyes elsewhere. Nic breathed a sigh of relief to be out of her penetrating gaze. “It’s something I’ve just always been able to do. Like, I just kind of observe them and pick up on stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and I noticed something about you, Nicolas Grantaire.” God dammit, her stare was right back on him. “You’ll never admit it, probably, even to yourself, so I’m gonna say it for you.” She took a deep breath. “You’re in love with him. J, I mean. No, don’t give me that blank look. I know things once I notice them.” She crossed her arms. “And I know how much he means to you. But I also know he likes me. He’s made it pretty obvious, in his way.” Jeannie let out a long sigh and sank into the couch. “We’re in a weird place with this. I like him too. But...J is kind of crazy, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Nic said flatly.

“He’s sweet and smart. He’s _really_ smart. I mean, he talks like a college professor sometimes. He’s funny, in his way. But I think there’s something a little...off...about J, y’know? He’s, uh, hyperfocused on his comedy, on being different. Like his gross-ass sandwich with the Pixie Stix and chips and apples and stuff? He told me he ate it because it was pure--”

“Chaos,” Nic finished for her. “He’s a comedian, Jeannie, he repeats what gets a reaction.”

Jeannie shrugged. “I could date him and be happy. I mean, people already think he’s my boyfriend because he’s the only one I talk to in class. He’s handsome and caring, he’s just...crazy.” She shook her head. “And then there’s you. You’re in love with him. This could get real nasty if...I don’t want to ruin...” Jeannie trailed off, not able to hold his gaze for once. “Love triangles are just stupid, we both know that. They’re something for stupid teenage girl books. It’s just that...I care about J a lot, even if he’s crazy.”

Thoughts were screaming through Nic’s head so fast he could hardly get a grip on them. How did Jeannie know he was in love with his best friend and had been since he was twelve? He’d never told a soul, not even Valjean. He didn’t flirt or make it obvious. How the hell did she know? And what was this crap about them liking each other? Did she think she had a claim to him or something? J had been his best friend first. He was the only person he had ever talked about his parents’ death with, for God’s sake. Something in his chest hardened and he gave his friend a tight smile. “I’m _not_ in love with him, Jeannie. Jeez, I’m not gay.” He forced a chuckle through gritted teeth. “ _God_. We’re just really good friends. You can date J if you want...I don’t care. They’ve started calling him Crazy J now. You know that, right? Nicole Richards made sure I know that he mumbles to himself in PE. When she told me that, Emma Wong came up and told me that everyone thinks he’s ‘schizophrenic or autistic or something.’ Those were her exact words. So if you two date, you’ll be Crazy J and his crazy girlfriend.”

At that moment, J came back in with a plate of freshly baked cookies. He didn’t notice his two best friends in the world side-eyeing each other warily from opposite sides of the couch. Instead, he plopped down between them. “Cookie?”

XXX

Azelma felt as if she was going mad. Never in her life had she felt sensations like this. It was like fireworks were exploding, champagne bubbles were popping, and stars were colliding in her head. The man once known was Julien Enjolras drew his head back from between her legs and bared his teeth at her. “I’ll take it you’re, hmm, enjoying yourself?” he said, licking his lips salaciously.

She nodded deliriously. Never thought she would be getting it on with a terrorist in a tunnel of love at a dizzy carnival. And yet! She was smiling so hard she thought she cheeks would fall off. “Sure am, Mr. J,” she sighed. She was no blushing virgin -- Monty could testify to that -- but God DAMN.

The Joker bared his teeth at her. “I’d take it farther, cupcake, but we’ve got business to attend to.” He yanked her to her feet and she teetered in those damned black heels before smoothing her skirt down. “We’re gonna get the boys to take us home, huh? Don’t want the Bat nabbing us, huh?” he said in a simpering tone. He took her by the hand and off they went, Azelma following behind, batty and lovesick. The Joker brought out a cellphone and dialed Vic. “Mr. Bahorel,” he cried, clearly in a good mood, his famous bravado filling the air, “get everyone settled in the car, huh? Drive on home! The lady and I have some--” He paused, his grip turning vice-like on Azelma. “WHO is WHERE?! FUCK. Of all the goddamn days...” He scrubbed a hand down his face, taking white grease paint with it. “Sweetheart, we gotta run. The Bat is here.”


	9. nine

The Bat arrived at the Gotham Fungrounds with zero pomp and circumstance. It was the dead of night, yet the colorful, flashing lights and distorted calliope music could be seen and heard from miles away. He prowled through the entrance (a giant clown’s mouth...how fitting) and once again wondered why the Joker would kidnap his therapist. What purpose did he have for the curly-haired prodigy? And -- a question that had plagued Batman for years -- why was it that the Joker surrounded himself with curly-haired people? The Joker had those leafy-green curls, his goons were of all ethnicities yet still had curls, the little therapist did, even the Bat himself. He wryly thought back to another time, even another  _ world  _ where he had just been a child. A child of a different race than all the other children, who they made fun of for his large, flat nose and his dark skin and of course, his curly black locks. 

_ You’re getting sidetracked, Nicolas. _

He stalked through the park on high alert, disgruntled when the Joker couldn’t be found. It was unlike the man to hide away. This screamed “trap.” Batman walked lightly past bumper cars and shooting galleries. He glanced up at the ferris wheel, which was spinning at twice its normal speed. The white and pink lights that usually blinked softly as it turned were twinkling erratically. The calliope music all but screamed from it. The Bat padded over and grabbed the lever that would stop the ferris wheel. Yanking it with all of his strength, he was rocketed backwards in the ensuing explosion.

He flew backwards and landed hard on his back. The boardwalk made a terrible groaning noise as it splintered under the sudden onslaught. The Bat cried out, his vision going spotty. Crackling flames licked up the sides of the ferris wheel and its music became even more distorted. He gave a low groan and spat blood. Nothing appeared to be broken, just sorely bruised. As he forced himself up, he glanced wildly around for the Joker, but found no sight of him. 

_ Jesus Christ. He’s already gone. _

 XXX

They’d had to abandon Mr. J’s car in the hurry so we could plant the little bomb in the ferris wheel. God, that had been exciting! Now they were packed in tight. Jehan was driving and Bahorel was up front with him. Firebug and Courf sat next to each other with JP perched on their laps. Azelma was smashed on Mr. J’s lap in the corner of the car. They were ripping down the streets of Gotham, away from the burning Fungrounds. 

Azelma couldn’t help but let loose a wild laugh at her situation. She rolled down the window, stuck her head out, and shouted into the wind. Mr. J chuckled and grabbed her thigh hard. “Letting a bit loose, huh?” he purred in her ear. She giggled in response.

 


End file.
